


Sherlock Drabbles

by Krasimer



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drabble Collection, Drabbles, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-18 22:46:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 8,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11884440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Krasimer/pseuds/Krasimer
Summary: Various Sherlock Drabbles I wrote in 2012/2013





	1. Worries Slip Away

It wasn't how it was meant to be.

They'd never specifically stated what it was that they were doing, but this definitely wasn't it. They weren't supposed to be domestic, not that sort of relationship.

It had started as Mycroft Holmes, inquiring about his little brother, asking from the one man who he knew would give him an opinionated answer without any sort of disdain for Sherlock. It had started as Gregory Lestrade being confronted by a worried older brother, one who occupied a "minor" position in the government.

It had moved on to a slow relationship of sex every once in a while.

Slowly, little things had slipped.

Mycroft would leave a tie at Greg's house. He would scrunch his nose when he remembered, but he wouldn't fuss too much. It gave him a reason.

Gregory would leave papers at Mycroft's flat, stumble back when he realized it, and leave with an apology and a smile.

Neither of them could risk this relationship, neither one could stomach the thought of the other dying because of him.

But here they were, finding themselves in a relationship completely different from what it had started as. It barely even resembled what it had started as, what with their slip ups.

A kiss to a cheek in the morning, a cup of coffee waiting when the other woke, a hand held for a half a second too long.

Slowly, they had slipped. Slipped from a release of tension and anger and aggravation, downwards towards a life of soft smiles and good mornings with thoughts of the man they had left behind only a few short hours before.

They couldn't stop it.

And neither one could find it within their minds to care.


	2. Trust In My Decisions

He had to hurry, he had to move faster. 

Why couldn't Lestrade's men understand? Moriarty had John. Moriarty had John in his clutches and he wasn't sure what would happen to his flatmate, but it wasn't anything good if the man's track record was anything to go by. It was something to go by, and therefore he wasn't sure why the police couldn't be made to understand that John was in danger. Moriarty was dangerous, and right now he had a hold of his John. HIS John, thank you! Moriarty had him, and he wouldn't let him go, not alive at any rate.

"Freak, calm down!" Donovan, standing up to him and getting in his way.

No one understood!

John was in danger, couldn't they see? Must be so sad, to be stuck in their tiny little minds, with their slow thought processes.

He stood still when he felt something wrap around his arm. Breathing hard, he turned to face whoever it was that was stupid enough to hold him back from saving his John. Only to see his brothers face, understanding filling the elder's eyes.

"Sherlock." Just his name, no teasing, no making fun, no tormenting. 

Just his name.

He swallowed, throat suddenly bone dry.

Mycroft just nodded once, slowly. Then turned away and let Sherlock go. He walked over to Lestrade and spoke with him a moment, eyes speaking volumes of how worried he was for the former military doctor, trapped inside, how scared he was for his little brother, how fearful he was that this would all end badly.

Sherlock felt himself panic at the sight of his brother being so openly emotional, even if it was just restricted to his eyes. Usually, when Mycroft felt the need to show emotion, something was going to end very badly, and someone was possibly going to die.

John.

He turned back to the building, eyes wide now, tongue darting out to attempt to wet his lips.

It didn't help, the inside of his mouth was just as parched as his lips, and there would be no moisture gained from either.

He turned back to his brother, who caught his eye and shook his head.

Making sure his brother was still watching him, he shrugged and nodded, rushing forward when no one blocked his path to the building that John was being held in.

If he couldn't rescue him, he'd damn well make sure they both went out well.


	3. Scorpions As An Alibi

"Aren't you even going to let me know what you're doing now?"

Sherlock looked up quickly, then back down towards the scorpions in his lap, crawling around the tank, occasionally breaking the silence with a thwack and a sound almost like the glass was breaking. He shrugged, turning towards John once more. "It's important to the case, and I would prefer silence right now."

"How on earth is this important to the bloody case?"

"Scorpions might determine the man's alibi, and I would rather test it now and see if I were right in this instance, which I usually am." he began icily. "If that is too complex for your capabilities, let's leave it at 'I will let you know when I am done' and move onwards from there, shall we?"

John sighed, a hand scrubbing at his face tiredly. "I'm just curious as to when you'll stop treating me like I mean nothing in your life. I try so hard to defend you from Anderson and Donovan, and all I get in return-"

"I apologize."

John stopped, turning to look at him. "What?"

"I said, I apologize."

Eyes wary, John took a step closer, crouching in front of Sherlock's chair. "Do you even know what for?"

"Acting as if you meant nothing, both as my flatmate, and my colleague."

Shrugging, John stood up. "Sounds about right, Sherlock. I am heading off to bed now, I will see you in the morning."


	4. Snog A Holmes Today

"Do the Holmeses intentionally shrug off any and all sexual advances, or is it just that they don't understand?"

Lestrade looked up, eyes searching John Watson's face for a moment. "I take it that your attempt to ask Sherlock on a date has not gone all that well?"

"Three guesses and the first two do not count."

Greg winced. "That bad?"

"That bloody bad." John sat on the stool next to the DI. "I mean, he uses his looks to advantage. Mainly his own. And then there is an utter absence of understanding when I say the words 'I want to go to dinner with you.' I mean, this last time, he actually brushed me off and told me that if I were hungry, it would hinder me less to go along to dinner myself rather than wait for him."

Another wince. "I...Dear lord, that does sound bad."

John caught the attention of the bartender, then turned to Greg. "It wouldn't even be so bad if he didn't tell me, in less harsh words, to sod off. He isn't even aware that he's doing this to me, I believe."

Greg patted him on the back, nodding slowly. "I'm still having difficulty in convincing Mycroft that I want him for more than just sex."

John, having received his beer and taken a sip, promptly spat it out on the bar.

"Sorry. Too graphic?"

"A little," John said tersely. "I mean...Hell, Mycroft Holmes is one thing, even if I do think that the man needs to loosen up a little, at least he's bloody AWARE. Sherlock just thinks I'm trying to impress a woman at work when I change up cologne or clothes. I bring home dinner, and he assumes that I'm just thinking he needs to eat more. Which he does, but at least give me a little credit!"

Greg shrugged. He grabbed his own bottle, taking a small sip. When he set the bottle back down, he noticed the unhappy look on John's face. "Look, give it one more shot tomorrow. If he doesn't even see that you're interested, leave it be for a while. If he is anything like his brother, he'll eventually get the hint."

"What if I don't want it to be eventually?"

Greg scrunched his nose in thought, feeling sorry for the younger man. "Then I would suggest snogging him. That'd get the hint across nicely I would think."


	5. Give Him A Chance

"I think John is seeing somebody."

Mycroft paused in the middle of his interrupted sentence to stare at his brother. "What?"

"I think that John Watson is seeing somebody," Sherlock said again, looking vaguely irritated. "I believe that he is seeing a woman, at his surgery, and that he is trying to figure out what her preferences are. He is switching out his colognes at an alarming rate, indicating that he does not know what she would prefer him to smell like. Or maybe it's a way for him to disguise her scent from me, though I do not know why he would do that seeing as I am perfectly alright with him dating someone."

Mycroft sighed, opting for waiting till his brother drifted to silence.

"I am, in case you were wondering. I would be fine with him dating a woman as long as it doesn't interfere with any cases where I might need him to accompany me. That Sarah woman interfered and also got herself nabbed when he did. Therefore, she was in the way. If he managed to find a woman that would not mess things up, then I would be perfectly accepting of it. As it stands, he has yet to find one, and I wish to question whichever dolt of a woman he has found on how well she can defend herself."

Sherlock fell silent.

Mycroft looked at him, head cocked at an angle. He was studying his brother quietly, fingers running over the handle of his umbrella. "I do not believe that he has a girlfriend, Sherlock." he paused, waiting for the unhappy blue eyes to focus on him. "I do not think that you should give this up that quickly, little brother. Pursue him, show him affection, give him something I know you have never given any other human being. Give him a chance. I have always understood emotions better than you have, and I find this to my irritation at times. This time, however, you are going to listen to me and you will follow my advice to the letter. You will give John Watson a chance."

Sherlock looked down at his feet, the toes of his shoes rubbing together awkwardly. By all appearances, anyone would have thought he was a nervous teenage boy, asking advice of an older brother.

He was a male, and he was talking to his older brother, but he was no longer in teenage age range. He would have thought himself past all the strange hormones and emotions, moving past the bloody stupid moments of his otherwise genius brain.

When Sherlock spoke again, he sounded broken, tired, and very much childlike.

"What if he doesn't want a chance?"

Mycroft looked at him, frowning. "You need to give him one anyway."


	6. Conspire Against

“I do believe, Mycroft, if I have to hear either one of them...AGAIN.” Lestrade paused and pulled in a shaky breath, “They sit there, consumed with the other and they never even see it. World's only sodding consulting detective, always telling you to observe rather than look, and he doesn't even see what the bleeding hell is under his painfully smart nose the entire time!” 

He wrinkled his own nose at the thought, sitting in his office chair, looking up at the elder Holmes' brother. He sighed and shrugged his shoulders helplessly. “I see them ignore each other one more bloody time...”

Mycroft chuckled and rolled his shoulders softly, working out an almost non-existent kink in the muscles. “My brother, whilst brilliant and analytical, has never had much of a mind for the-” the roll of his tongue as he searched the air for the right word was almost visible, making Lestrade shift in now slightly too tight pants. “-Quirks, shall we say, of a romantic relationship. He sees everything, and almost nothing at the same time. A conundrum and quite unlikely to be solved at any time in the near future. Sherlock's past, as you well know, is not one full of happiness.” 

Here, he set the ever present umbrella against the edge of the Detective Inspectors desk. “I advise that we work away at our ends of the puzzle until one of the two of them sorts it out for themselves. As for you, you are too stressed, and I do not believe that the Scotland Yard should have a DI amongst them that is involved in something so distracting.”

Lestrade grinned at that. 

“I think that's Mycroft speak for 'Might I have a kiss?' but I can't really be sure.”

The faintest flush across the younger man's cheeks told him all he needed to know.


	7. Sometimes We've Got To Go

"John Watson, you are going to march in there right now, d'you hear me?" Lestrade demanded of him unashamedly. "I don't want you sodding moping out here!"

John gave a half hearted shrug, looking down at his feet.

On the walk back to the hospital, Lestrade had noticed that John had suddenly gained a limp. He'd been tempted to ask John if he'd tripped, or twisted an ankle or something, but the downtrodden look on his face had convinced him otherwise. The younger man looked so empty, even after only being told to leave his friend alone, that Lestrade hadn't even wanted to try.

"I'm not moping," John muttered. " 'M crying. S'there's a difference."

He wiped half heartedly at his nose, swiping at the tears and managing to get them streaked across the bridge of his nose, and the fabric of his sodden jumper only made the growing redness worse.

Greg winced. John was certain to have a cold after this, and he wondered if it was the best thing to allow the two younger men to go home yet. Sherlock would have to stay, of course, until he rode out the worse of the remainder. John might not want to go home until he was clear of the flu that would knock him out for a while. He was sure though, that neither man would accept being held in the hospital right now. He pushed Watson into the room, the watched him move slowly on his own. John stood awkwardly at the side of Sherlock's bed, staring down at the floor.

Greg pushed him softly, watching him drop into the chair next to him. 

John looked at him, blue eyes tear filled and lost looking. "What do I do here?"

"I'll leave you to decide that on your own," Lestrade whispered. "I'll go find his brother and tell him that his screw up has been fixed."

~

When Sherlock woke next, it was to the reassuring voice of his primary caretaker.

He felt a strange weight roll off of his chest, the toll of the day finally settling in past the adrenaline. John was alright and alive, and neither of them was being destroyed or burned by Moriarty. He nearly sobbed, eyes tightening against the flow of warmth threatening to break out. 

Following his senses, he listened to what the man was saying.

Only to feel his throat tighten as he realized that John was muttering "I'm sorry" over and over again, quietly, and near his hand. He could feel the other mans breath on his hand, the fine hairs on his arm rising slightly in the breeze created.

He tried responding.

His throat was too dry, and it made a vague rasping sound.

He tried again.

"John." It was hoarse, and more than a little dry. He would be paying for that later. But he heard John stop his muttering.

"Sherlock." 

His name was said almost like a prayer, John having had a near panic attack when he heard the younger man's voice.

"You're awake."

"Obviously."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is part of a longer set of drabbles but I don't like the rest of the set enough to post them on their own.


	8. His Name Holds More Pride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of the would-have-been AU from the previous chapter.

Lestrade patted John on the shoulder. "You alright then?" he asked quietly, as they both watched Sherlock and Mycroft argue in the completely silent way that the Holmes brothers had. It was sometimes eerie to watch them, eyes narrowing and in Sherlock's case, rolling. 

"Lately, I'm just John...Not very much to the world, I know." he shrugged. "The name he carries holds a bit more pride in it."

"You're feeling a little bit like a tag on."

"Yeah." John turned to Lestrade. "You and Mycroft have at least got this whole...relationship, really, where you've been officially bloody dating for a few weeks now. Sherlock is still oblivious. The dumbest genius I have ever had the pleasure of meeting." He rolled his shoulders, tucking away the last few papers he was working on. "I need to go to the Tesco for a few things. They appear to still be doing the sodding silent growling at each other."

"Mycroft would probably allow himself to talk to his brother if we weren't in the same room as them. I'll go with you." Lestrade grinned nervously when one of the brothers gave a barely audible sigh, a sign that there would be yelling soon enough.

They each grabbed their coats, John triple checking to see if he had everything he needed. "Going out, in case you care," he called back into the flat. "Getting stuff for tea."

When he got no response, he shrugged his way into his jacket and continued walking, catching up to Lestrade quickly.

"Did they notice?"

He rolled his eyes, then shook his head. "Didn't even answer."

Lestrade gave him a small half smile, the corner of his mouth tilting upwards in amusement. "That's enough like them that it reassures, rather than worries."

"Yeah," John said quietly, fondly, as he thought of Sherlock.

When they were halfway back to the flat, John realized that he'd forgotten the milk. "Oh hell, I have to go back."

Lestrade grabbed the bag that John was carrying. "Go on, I've got this lot."

"Thanks." John gave a grateful nod before turning around.

The next time Lestrade saw John, it was a picture of the younger man, bound to a chair, ropes tight enough to make him bleed, and angry blue eyes directed at the camera. Sherlock had shoved the mobile phone into his face and told him where the building he was in was located, how fast they'd get there, and that they needed to go NOW, thank you very much!

Lestrade felt his heart sink in his chest as he realized who had taken John.

The damned name that few dared to say, and even fewer knew well. There were whispers amongst the lesser criminals, nervous now that The Great Sherlock Holmes had angered him. The higher ups were even more fearful. Tangling with Moriarty was not something many did, and those who were recruited by him rarely lived to tell the tale.

If they weren't careful, and they didn't move fast enough, the small photo on Sherlock's mobile might be the last anyone ever saw of the ex-army doctor. One look into the younger man's face told him that wasn't a good thing.


	9. This Is Halloween

"Shit, Sherlock, you're insane," John muttered as he saw the younger man rush into the building below, having asked him to stay on the roof and make sure that no one was up there. There'd been a particularly vicious murder spree lately, all of the clues having to do with the Samhain, All Hallows Eve, Halloween night. John had wondered if Sherlock even knew the definition of safety when he rushed in, and he was sure to have to treat the various injuries later.

But right now, he pulled out his mobile and dialed Lestrade.

"Greg, look, I don't have much time. He ran in before I could get back down and stop him. Tell Mycroft. Yeah. Yeah, I'll be fine until you get here." he heard a crash below. "Hurry."

Hanging up, he pulled his service weapon out from his waistband, clicking the safety off. Taking a deep breath, he ran into the building to rescue his friend from whatever was happening. He'd been teaching Sherlock how to fight back against London's criminal underground, but they hadn't gotten very far in the lessons what with Sherlock getting distracted every few minutes.

He smiled as he ran in, hitching his shoulders higher to break down a door.

 

Lestrade motioned his men forward, bullet protection under each one's clothing.

They broke down a door and all of them stopped when they noticed that John and Sherlock were leaning against a wall, breathing heavily. On the ground in front of them, there were two men, tied together and unconscious. They appeared to have bruises forming on their faces.

He sighed, shaking his head slowly. "Should I even ask, you two?"

John laughed. "I don't think so."

"I believe it is well within your deductive abilities to answer that for yourself," Sherlock muttered, nose scrunching up a little.


	10. Broken Men (The Worries We Carry)

"Hero of the common people, aren't you?" the man sneered, looking at Sherlock.

Sherlock Holmes himself was on the ground, holding onto John. "I'm not a hero. Heroes don't exist." he took a hasty breath, holding John's hand tightly. The older man had been knocked unconscious and hadn't been responding since he had briefly woken up. The man they were chasing this time stood in front of them, holding John's gun and aiming the barrel down at the two men. 

Sherlock's hand crept slowly up to John's pulse, then waited.

One.

Two.

Three.

He was still alive.

Sherlock closed his eyes. "You have what you want, why are you here still?"

"Because if I leave you alive, you'd come and find me. You ain't the type to let alone, are ya?" 

Sherlock heard footsteps approaching and looked around for a second. "I would not." he sighed. "Boring." 

"Boring?" the man snarled "What about this is boring?"

That was the last thing he managed to get out before Lestrade hit him in the back of the head, knocking him unconscious, sending him to the ground and John's gun skittering over to Sherlock.

"Do you have ANY BLOODY IDEA how mad Mycroft would get at me if I let his little brother die on my watch?" Lestrade asked the younger Holmes. "I probably wouldn't see him for a week, at the very least."

Sherlock nodded, barely hearing him. "John needs a doctor." he murmured, brushing said man's hair away from his face. "He won't wake up. He still has a pulse. Face still living flushed, still breathing, albeit shakily." he looked down at John's face, eyes moving quickly as if he were reassuring himself that the sturdy man was still there. 

Lestrade nodded, moving a little closer.

Which was probably the only reason he heard Sherlock say what he did.

"Please." it was sad, almost broken like if he spoke any louder he would break. "Help him."


	11. Everybody's Got Demons

James Moriarty was a broken man.

There's all the genius and the sociopathy, and the plans, and the Westwood suits and...

The break, where brain met the physical world.

He wasn't even a whole man, which was why he sought Sherlock Holmes in the first place. He'd been raised broken, and he grew up broken, and now the broken parts were unable to be fixed within his mind.

Sebastian Moran was the person who was left with the damages, looking over them and trying to make sure they didn't grow. If they did, it would eventually get to the point where Jim (in private James, his James, his sweet psychopathic James) wouldn't be able to function on his own. The dance with the Holmes idiot wouldn't keep him entertained for long. It had to end somewhere, and Sebastian was sure that it would end with Sherlock Holmes dead and gone.

He just didn't think that it would end with James dead as well.

A bullet through the back of his mouth, exiting the back of his head. Blood splatters over the only thing that he wore that day from his expensive wardrobe, a coat, staining the collar of his shirt bright red.

This wasn't how it was supposed to be, and neither of them was supposed to end. Sherlock Holmes was splattered on the cement below, James Moriarty splattered in chunks on the roof of the building.

Even in death, still above Sherlock Holmes.

He felt his finger tighten a fraction, the trigger squeezing tighter in the cradle of the gun he was holding, aimed at John Watson's head. For a moment, a single moment, he wondered what would happen if he took the man down, shot him in the head and spilled his precious blood and brains like James had spilled his own.

He had heard through the mobile that James had left on, in his pocket.

He'd heard the shot, then seen Holmes jump from the building. The only proper conclusion then was that James was dead. Only two people up on that building and one of them had plummeted to his death.

He'd heard, before James had died, the BeeGees singing, playing from the phone that held his last moments. He'd jokingly changed the song that played on James's phone one night when he   
had admitted that they were his favorite.

"Stayin' Alive..." he whispered, Pulling the gun down from his vantage point, away from aiming at John Watson's head.


	12. Body Hitting The Floor

Sherlock sneered at the man in front of him, a hand in front of him, the other reaching for the small gun hidden in his waistband. "Sebastian Moran, I assume?"

The blonde man in front of him snarled. "Yes."

"Revenge for James Moriarty. That's a new one." he didn't bother to even pretend to look around, he already knew where everything was and he knew what his choices were. "And how did you ever find me?"

The man glared at him, the muscles in his neck twitching in distaste. "I heard that our network was being yanked. Knew I should have killed your darling little doctor when I had the chance." he shook his head, eyes not leaving Sherlock's. "Should have known that 'The Great Sherlock Holmes' wouldn't simply allow himself to die before he'd cleared his name."

"You loved him."

Not a question.

"And you killed him." came the gruff answer. "You killed him, and now I have NOTHING." 

He ran a hand over the rifle in his hands. "Nothing but this."

Sherlock took a measured step forward, not wanting to startle the man into shooting before he had to. "You do have other options."

"I do, yeah." Moran shrugged "S'not like I'll ever be needed to work again after this. He won't call just to have me go hunting. The fight is gone now, and all that I have left is what I've got with me right now." He turned the gun over in his hands, almost petting it. There was anger and pain in his eyes, but behind it all, there was a sense of giving up. He knew he was out of time, just as Sherlock knew.

They both raised their guns to the other at the same moment.

In the middle of a dark night, two shots rang out, and a body fell.


	13. Blogger For The Dead

Mycroft Holmes had once said, about John Watson, "He could be the making of my brother...Or make him worse than ever."

What no one had anticipated, however, was that Mycroft Holmes had been wrong for this first time in his life. John Watson wasn't the making of his brother. He hadn't made him worse, either.

Sherlock had been the one to break the other.

He had come in, shown John his world through his eyes as best as he could, and then left again. He had taken away John's ability to survive without the adrenaline rush that solving crimes brought about. He had thrown himself off of a roof, to put to an end the life he had been leading.

John had only been able to stand and watch, a moment later running. Running to try and stop the fall, to impossibly catch him like Sherlock had caught him when he was about to shoot himself in the head to end the misery that being invalided out of the war had caused him.

But in the end, Sherlock had slipped through his grasp and the crowd had dragged him away, pulling the limp and still warm wrist from his fingers. And the blood that was everywhere had made him gag, made him sob, made him beg and plead for Sherlock to get up. To come home. Even afterward, at the funeral service that had been attended by very few people, John was left alone at the graveside. Eventually, the coffin was covered and John was staring at a patch of dampened earth, newly turned and filling in a hole.

And now he sat, in the empty flat, gun in hand, reminders of the lost genius that had once filled the hallways with the sound of a violin. With gunshots to an empty wall that had it coming, even with the soft sound of a low-velocity explosion.

If he closed his eyes, he could still hear the violin, phantom strains of music working their way into his head as he sat and sobbed into the darkness.

Mycroft Holmes should have said that Sherlock would break John.

Because now he sat, a blogger for a dead man, and he wouldn't ever be the same again.


	14. Watching Through A Window (Your Life Passed You By)

Sherlock watched through the windows of 221B.

John was currently asleep on the couch, curled up almost pathetically small, arms wrapped around the cushion and the control for the telly in his hands.

About an hour ago, Mrs. Hudson had come upstairs and placed a blanket around the man, tucking him in gently.

She had also put a few bags of groceries in the fridge, and a few notes in his wallet, just in case.

He hardly ever left the flat these days, but she leaves him a little bit of money because she wants him to get out of the house again.

He hasn't left in a week, but he's not gaining weight.

In fact, he's losing a dreadful amount, his once slightly too tight shirts dimpling in around the empty spaces on his frame now.

He's being taken care of, Sherlock knows this. Between Mrs. Hudson's fussing and Mycroft paying off all of John's bills, 

Molly's been telling him though, that she hasn't seen John in forever. He hasn't gone in to work for ages.

Lestrade, dismissed and slightly dishonored, she still sees from time to time. They get together and talk about things. She's sure to tell Sherlock everything the next time she contacts him, but he knows that someone is at least doing alright.

But John...

John is broken.

Everything is his body, how he holds himself, how he walks, how he sits, all of it.

He's back to being how he had been when he met Sherlock.

Except now he's also worse because Sherlock had somehow managed to convince John to let him in. John let him in, watched him, followed him, healed from what had been done to him in his time after coming home again. Coming home from war and having to listen to an alcoholic of a sister who ranted at him that he had never done anything for her, then instantly turned around and sobbed an apology. He'd come home and met with a madman who offered him a way of life. He'd come home, to London, and met Sherlock Holmes.

And from the moment he had run out the door of Angelo's restaurant and left his cane on the bench to follow a madman with a genius mind, he had been lost and found at the same time.

He'd come to find a house, and he had found a home, solving crimes with the madman that he called his friend. And then, without warning, everything had been pulled out from under him.

Sherlock shifted his position on the rooftop across the street from his old flat. John had woken up and started moving about, pulling on a jacket and shoes, grabbing his cane and his keys and left. He followed silently, slipping down the streets behind his friend.

Then came to a stop at the graveyard gates, watching John going down the path ahead of him. He turned and took a faster pathway through the gravestones and hid behind a stand of trees. Hearing John, he found a chink in the trees to watch him through.

John was crying.


	15. Ghosts (Always Alive)

Years from now, when the lives have been settled and the debts have been paid, there will be a constant ghost in a flat on Baker Street.

Settled in amongst the eddies and slow swirls of dust, a ghostly figure stands at a window. 

Even the most observant watcher wouldn't be able to tell what the figure is wearing, and no one ever actually really wants to know. All they know is that the figure is someone from a long time ago. If they talk to the woman who owns the building, she'll smile and tell you a small story about her Great-great aunt's favorite tenants. She'll sigh wistfully and turn to look at the stairs that lead to the unrented flat above her head.

She'll turn to you, and ask if you want to see it.

If you nod and follow her, she'll lead the way up the stairs and quietly unlock a door with a key that she has had in her pocket this entire time. She'll wave you in behind her, closing the door with a soft click. From the corner, you'll hear the soft clicking noise of an intermittent typist, probably only using a few fingers and having to hunt down the right keys.

Next to the window, there stands the figure whose clothing you can't quite make out. There's something moving through the air, very obviously being held in a set of hands.

If you don't look carefully enough, all you'll see is dust moving through the air in large, slow, swirls as the electricity in the room rises to an almost breaking point. In the corner, the clicking has stopped.

A noise begins to fill the room, the soft strains of a violin's music float around you. Expertly played and obviously memorized.

After a time, feeling like hours have gone past even though it has only been a few minutes, you turn to her and inquire about the price of the room. She shakes her head, declining your offer to move in. She doesn't think they'd want anyone intruding on their space, and quite honestly, from what she knows of their life, they deserve the quiet.

The room gives an almost sigh as you walk away from it, the clicking starting up again. The violin is still playing, softer this time.

You turn to her and ask why she won't rent it out.

She gives you a smile, and if there's more of the old woman who used to own this building in it than there probably should be, you don't realize. She tells you one thing, and one thing only. "Because for them, it's always their day. Their year. Their moment. They're not haunting this place. They didn't die here." Her smile grows, crinkling up the corners of her eyes. "But they lived here. They lived so much of their lives here."

And with that, you're given a biscuit of some kind, and kindly ushered out the door, back onto Baker street. With one last look, you walk away, knowing that you won't come back. But you'll always remember the two who had lived so much and in turn echoed strongly all these years later.

And now, you're part of how the world will always remember Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.


	16. Return To You

"John," he mutters, hand pressed to the wood of the door. He heard the sounds of some people moving around inside, and he drew back, fingers trailing along the number plaque to the side.

After a moment, the movement within having gone silent, he put his bare palm to the wood. Three years ago, there had been a near pulse from the wood, as if he and John together created a life force for the flat.

Now it was silent and still, like the pulse of a dead man.

He heard approaching footsteps, and with a quickness that he had developed in the time he had been gone, he was around the corner of the staircase. With not a dust mote out of place, he stood and watched as John came down the stairs, and stormed out the door, followed quickly by Lestrade.

The ex-DI followed the doctor and tried to put a consoling hand on his shoulder, only to be brushed briskly off, nearly slammed into the wall.

Unbidden, a conversation popped into his head.

_"You want to remember, Sherlock, I was a soldier! I killed people!"_

_"You were a doctor!"_

_"I had bad days!"_

Then Irene Adler had come into play and ruined for a brief while the relationship he had forming with John.

He closed his eyes for a moment. Opening them, he shook his head slowly, turning back to the door of the flat and opening it.

Immediately, a sense of familiarity and safety enveloped him. Still hanging on the walls were the things he had placed there a few years before.

John had kept it all. Sentiment. A voice that was suspiciously like his brothers popped into his head, dead pan tone reminding him that caring was not an advantage and that Sentiment was a mark of the losing side.

As his hand curled into a fist, he walked through the room, coming to a stop next to what had been his chair. A hand slid, almost of its own volition, up the back to rest on the top. Looking down at it, he realized that there was more wear on it than there had been the last time he had been in 221B.

Looking over at John's chair, he frowned. The other man's furniture had been bought shortly after he had moved in, very few things because Sherlock had already owned most of what was needed.

There had been a bed, a chair, a few desk lamps, and that had been it. Since John had to buy it all new, he'd been able to see how much wear and use marked the cushions.

And, just like everything else about John Hamish Watson, he couldn't seem to delete it.

So why was John's chair still at the stage it had been at when he had left?

Looking at the furniture under his hand, he saw a few hairs on the top of it. Blonde hairs, the exact shade of blonde and the exact length to match one John Watson.

John had been using his chair. With a choked breath, he sat down, reclaiming his abandoned seat. If he focused, he could remember exactly what the last look that he had seen on John's face when looking directly at him.

He'd been angry and disappointed. He'd been at the point of wanting to hurt him, and there was no way that John had calmed down from that.

Well, at least he would earn a bruise as a badge of returning home.

Sudden footsteps storming up the stairs and the door slamming open caused him to jerk, before recognizing those footfalls.

The door hit the wall and rebounded, striking John's shoulder.

He didn't even blink.

With a deep shuddering breath, he took a step forward, the storm of anger gone.

"Sherlock," he whispered, his lower lip trembling. "Of course...I'm...Not again." he turned away, muttering to himself and shaking his head.

"John-"

"YOU'RE NOT REAL!" he spat, the volume of his voice rising quickly. "Sherlock Holmes is DEAD, and I was left here all alone, and-" he sobbed.

At his feet, dropped in shock, was the cane he had carried when they had first met. John took a step forward and his leg collapsed underneath him, sending him to the floor on his knees.

With a broken gasp, he stared intently at a spot on the ground.

"John," he spoke again, standing and walking to the crumpled heap of a man on the floor, kneeling at his side. "We've lost far too much time already."

He reached out a hand, brushing away the falling tears on the older man's cheek. "I am here, John, I assure you."

Without any warning, John latched onto his arm, holding it tightly and sobbing into the sleeve of his coat.

Behind him, Lestrade came running through the door.

"John, what the hell- Sherlock?!?"

He nodded, drawing John into his arms and making an attempt at a comforting hair stroke. "Yes, Lestrade. However unbelievably strange your life has been, I am actually still alive."

"How-"

"When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, is the truth," he assured him, with the barest hint of a smile.

In his arms, John laughed quietly, still crying.


	17. Burning Up Alive

"You can take it."

Moran looked up from his work, pausing for a moment. "I could take what?"

Sneering, Moriarty brushed his hands clean of something only he could see. "If I hurt you. If I decided to rip you apart. You could take it."

Moran pretended to consider this for a moment, pulling his bottom lip into his mouth. "I could." he raised his eyes to Jim's face, focusing in on his cheekbone.

_Never meet his eyes._

Suddenly, Jim was all giggles and a smile as he slid into the sniper's lap, tangling his fingers into the cropped blonde hair. Something was still wild in the man's eyes though, he still looked like a creature was running rampant in his skin.

He still looked murderous, despite the smile gracing his face.

Sebastian set down the gun he had been reassembling and smiled, still not meeting the younger man's eyes. "What brought this up?"

Jim suddenly looked as if someone had told him that he was dying. "You should know better than to ask."

Sebastian internally cursed himself. If he had asked five seconds later, he would have gotten a different reaction. Sometimes Jim just reacted differently no matter how well you thought you were reading him.

He found his chair, himself still seated in it, shoved across the room with all of the strength in Jim's skinny frame. The back of his chair skidded and hit a bump, causing him to fall backward and hit the floor, vision blacking out for a moment.

In that time, Jim had crossed the room after him, and when he regained sight, the other man's foot was planted steadily on his chest. From the ankle up to his hips, Jim looked like a well-dressed business man.

On top of his well-fitted trousers (Westwood. He would almost swear up and down that the man had a fetish if it wouldn't get him killed.)  he wore a baggy white undershirt. His arms were covered in ink doodles that he had quietly spent the better part of three hours drawing.

His feet were bare.

It didn't make him any less dangerous, but it did mean that Sebastian could see the bones and sinew underneath the milk white skin. The man was fragile, a paper-thin Napolean of Crime.

And he was his weapon.

Jim looked angry. He had gone far past the strange air of annoyed and straight into the realm of angry enough to kill.

"Don't ask me that, don't you dare assume that you know what's wrong with me!" he snarled, pressing his foot down on Sebastian's throat.

Sebastian didn't dare move, or make a sound, or even try to dislodge the foot crushing his windpipe.

"Don't you ever!" Jim hissed, tears welling in his eyes. "Don't!"

With that, he withdrew his leg and sprinted across the room, hitting the corner and curling into a ball at the bottom. He drew his legs to his chest and pressed his face into them. His arms, long and black-ink covered with pale skin showing through like freckles, wrapped around his knees.

Without a sound, Sebastian stood and walked over to him slowly. When he was within arms reach, he knelt down and reached cautiously for the younger man. He didn't grab him by an arm or by the knee.

Instead, he curled his hand under his chin and raised his head, brushing a finger over his cheek. In a quiet tone, still raspy from being choked, he murmured soothingly.

Jim took a look at his face, then raised a hand and wrapped it around Sebastian's wrist. "I'm sorry." he whispered, "You must think me perfectly dreadful."

Sebastian smiled. "I don't think you're anything of the sort." leaning forward, he kissed the man's forehead. "You're lovely."

Jim gave him a watery smile and leaned into his arms, shaking as if he were cold.

Sebastian curled a hand into his hair, scratching softly.


	18. You Went Away

One day.

That's what John had promised himself after Sherlock had died. He had promised that one day he would try to understand why the man had been so caught up in the game with Moriarty. He wasn't prepared, however, for that day to be today.

It had started with a comment from Sally Donovan. She had run her mouth off, given foul words to the already tarnished name of a dead man. She had called Sherlock a fake, had claimed she knew it all along and John had finally snapped.

It was too much for him to be near her, he would have preferred her to be silent the entire time.

He would have preferred to grieve in silence and in a solitary state.

"He was always suspicious, he was. Always knew exactly where to look for things that no one should have seen. The sick bastard probably got off on it." he had heard her say, the volume of her voice had grown when she had seen him.

He heard her continue, heard her further muddy his name. And he snapped.

He had smacked her across the face before he knew what was happening. Lestrade had to hold him back. 

He still nearly got free to go after her again.

"Sherlock Holmes was a great man." he snarled, clenching his teeth tightly enough to hurt. "Far better than you, far better than anyone you will ever know."

She gaped at him wordlessly. Some quick thinking person had grabbed a napkin and some ice and had given it to her, so she could nurse her now injured jaw.

"You stupid bloody bint," he whispered. "You're one of the people who killed him."

He looked at her, dressed in her high heels and her one expensive dress (He could almost hear Sherlock muttering about how she had obviously only ever had the one) and he sneered. "You're just a scavenger." he shook Lestrade's hands off. "You only ever focus your desperate self-loathing and anger on the rest of the bloody world because you've never liked yourself."

Anderson appeared out of nowhere, a lovely brunette woman following unhappily beside him.

No sooner had they appeared than John turned on them. "You must be the lovely Missus Anderson." he smiled at her, then turned her attention to her husband and Sally. "They've been sleeping together behind your back. I am not aware of how such a repulsive little bug could gain the attentions of one very beautiful woman and one vicious little leech, but I felt the need to inform you."

He turned on his heel, heading towards the door. "Thank you for the invitation to the party, Greg. I'll be going now."

A hand on his arm stopped him. "How did you know about his affair?" came a soft voice.

He turned but kept walking. She was following him. "My partner, Sher- My partner knew and in a very particular display of being an utter show off he announced it to me the first day we met."

An eyebrow raised, she smiled. "Thank you. But your partner, where is he? I would like to meet him and give him thanks."

He didn't speak for a moment as they passed through the doors into the outside world. "He jumped from the top of Saint Bart's hospital, around eight months back now." his voice broke, "His name was S-Sherlock..."

Her eyes, dark stormy green with flecks of gray widened. "Oh, oh my dear..." she put her arm around his shoulders, leading him to a bench. "Sherlock Holmes." she finished for him as he started crying softly.

He nodded, placing his face in his hands. 

She patted his shoulder, then sighed. "When you say partner, do you mean work or...?" She left it off at that, obviously not meaning to be offensive.

"I mean..." he shook a little, still crying. "I lov-" a hitch in his breath interrupted him "I loved him."

Slinging her arm around his waist, she lay her head on his shoulder. "Oh dear, it'll be alright." she kissed his cheek. 

There was a silent pause, neither of them speaking and the city giving them only a few sounds. When she spoke next, it was a change of subject. "My name is Mary." she finally introduced herself. "And when I married Leslie, he was not quite the awful man that he is now."

Eventually, they ended up in a restaurant, talking and getting to know each other.

John gave an internal sigh, smiling as she talked animatedly about any subject but the few they were avoiding.

Her presence was a balm to him, and he was grateful for her being there.

And if he looked just right, she held more than a passing resemblance to Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you might be able to tell at this point, these drabbles were written at the end of season 1, before season 2 had been released. So some things aren't canon compliant, but I still like them.


End file.
